


Nothing beside remains

by CaketinTheHobo



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: (with some skewing i guess), Alternate Universe, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Pre-Dishonored (Video Game), Ravens, like a lot of ravens, the slowest burn ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-23 19:39:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaketinTheHobo/pseuds/CaketinTheHobo
Summary: The statue of the Lord Protector has been in the grounds of Dunwall Tower longer than anyone can remember. When a young Jessamine Kaldwin discovers it tangled in the undergrowth, she’s intrigued. Who is he? Where did he come from?As she grows older, the statue becomes something akin to a confidant - a person she can talk to without fearing any harsh words in response, one she can tell her secrets to; a refuge from the pressures of court life.Corvo - the man cursed to be stone for eternity - simply wishes he could just talk back.Written as part of the 2016-17 Dishonored Big Bang.





	Nothing beside remains

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone in the Dishonored discord server for their help. Extra thanks go to Lark and Pauline for being my pseudo beta readers.
> 
> An extra shoutout goes to the artists! goldenviscera (the first piece) and bitterbrokenbones (the second piece) - please send them love!!

 

“He lifts up both his hands to feel the work,

and wonders if it can be ivory,

because it seems to him more truly flesh—”

**Ovid’s** **_Metamorphoses._ **

* * *

 

She found it half-buried in vines, stone and plant life intermingled together; no discernible end of one and no true beginning of the other. It was old - that much she could tell by the way the vines had decayed and regrown several times around the base, never quite managing to engulf it fully but still trying all the same.

Her mother’s voice floated over the undergrowth, mild concern lacing the words, but it was a world away, only half-heard in this sanctuary.

“Honey- come back where I can see you!”

“Mother! I found a man!”

The sigh of annoyance turned into something else partway through, and the girl was joined by her mother; who, after gazing at the ‘person’, laughed and lifted her daughter into her arms.

“Jessamine! You gave me a fright! It’s only a statue!”

“Who is it?” she asked, eyes wide and hands reaching for the dark stone. Her hands grasped the outstretched one, wondering what the man was reaching for.

“I don’t know,” her mother said, carefully leaning forward to peer at the base. “ _The Lord Protector,”_ she read aloud.

“What does he protect?” Jessamine asked. “Is that why he looks so angry?”

“He doesn’t look _angry-_ ” her mother chided. “He looks- fearsome. And I suppose he’s meant to protect _us_ somehow. Maybe you should ask your father about him. He’s lived here much longer than I have.”

“He’s not doing a very good job of protecting if he’s here in the bushes,” Jessamine said, in the matter-of-fact way only a child can have.

“No,” her mother agreed, laughing slightly. “Maybe his job is to protect you from me when I find out you’ve been sneaking to the kitchen to steal extra cookies from the cook!”

Jessamine shrieked - her mother’s grip had turned into merciless tickling - and she struggled and kicked until she was placed onto the ground. She disappeared into the bushes again, no doubt heading for said kitchen, followed by her mother’s quick steps and laughter.

* * *

 

He cannot remember everything as it once was.

What he does remember is this:

He was sworn to protect. To offer his life in place of his charge. To fight any and all assailants and ensure continuation of the line at any cost. At _all_ costs.

He remembers years of peace and prosperity, which then turned to fear and unease as a new threat beheld the empire.

He remembers fighting a fight he didn’t know he was going to lose, fury and vigour and desire to win crushed beneath a stronger hand.

And he remembers the feeling of cold stone, and red blood spilling over the newly-made black marble.

Watching, unable to move, as she was lost.

But this is not the story you are thinking of.

* * *

 

When Jessamine and her mother visit, he expects that this will be the last time he will see either of them. There’s no comfort or solace to be found in that - just something to hold on to and attempt to remember when so much is forgotten. But she was different from the ravens; her laughter nothing akin to the harsh caws of the birds that were his only compatriots through the years.

The ravens have lived in the tower grounds almost as long as he has - the _Lord Protector_ only protects their nests, now.

And while Jessamine certainly wasn’t the first visitor to his small, overgrown grotto, she was the most recent - the most _innocent._

He always liked it when children visited. Their curiosity, as yet untempered by grief or the trials of adulthood, often drew them to him. His only way to mark the passage of time was by the growing of the children - and the gaps in years when they became too old to want to visit, and their own children too young to know of the statue in the grounds.

So when Jessamine comes _back_ the next day, he’s surprised.

* * *

 

There are many things he cannot remember.

He cannot remember how it feels when sunlight warms his skin, nor the bite of wind or rain.

He cannot remember the sound of her laughter, and he cannot remember why that hurts him so. He cannot remember who _she_ even is - only that she was important and he failed to protect her.

He cannot even remember his own name.

He remembers when the tower was first built. When the first stones were laid, and the red banners of the Queen flew above the ramparts of the tower. They had a symbol, and while he knows that it was important to him he doesn’t remember why or what it was.

The city was not named Dunwall then, but he cannot remember it's old name, either. He’s not sure if that matters anymore.

Everything the Lord Protector stood to protect is no more - less than a half-forgotten memory, not even a legend or a story told by those who chance upon his grotto.

Being turned to everlasting stone gave him perspective on one thing:

Everything changes, and everything is forgotten.

* * *

 

Jessamine is with someone else this time - dragging a man who is presumably her father by the arm through the undergrowth to the small open space in front of the statue.

The ravens nearby caw - one perches upon his shoulder and while he can’t _feel_ it he knows its there. It regards the pair below them, almost as if it were some sort of advisor to the unmoving stone.

_Ananke,_ he named that one. A young raven among the flock, but strong, inquisitive.

“Look, papa!” she pointed at the statue. “He’s called The Lord Protector.”

“Yes, Jessamine - I can see,” he replied. “I remember him from when I was a child - I used to climb all over him and sit in his shoulders.”

And _he_ remembers that - a small boy with sticky hands and a cunning gleam in his eye clambering over him, using the outstretched arm to haul himself to the highest point to throw stones at the ravens.

Euhorn - that was his name. It sounds foreign to him, but considering he doesn’t know his own name anymore, he doesn’t understand why it still sounds wrong. Jessamine is wrong, too, but it’s not as if he can fault either of them. They didn’t choose their names.

(Neither did the ravens, but they can’t tell him their true names. He names them for the things he notices, or remembers.)

Ananke is too young a bird to remember Euhorn’s childhood antics, but she still puffs her feathers and caws at them, hopping onto his outstretched fist to peer down at Jessamine.

The ravens remember - some unspoken knowledge passed down through countless generations of birds. He wonders what they would be able to tell him about himself.

Euhorn lifts Jessamine now, causing Ananke to flutter away as the girl is placed onto him. Sitting on his shoulder, she kicks her feet slightly - elegant and sensible shoes thudding into the stonework. He’s not worried - he discovered long ago that the stone he’s cast in is impenetrable.

(A stonemason once tried to destroy him to use the black stone to make tools with. He’d swung his hammer, hit the statue with all his might, and shattered both the hammer and his wrist.)

Jessamine laughs, that sweet, high sound filling the air again, balancing on the statue’s shoulder, hands briefly covering his eyes as she pulls herself to a standing position.

“I’m taller than you!” she proclaims, and her father laughs.

“Yes, dear,” he says, “now- you’ve shown me the statue - I have things that need attending to and _you_ need to go to your lessons.”

“But _papa!”_ There’s something scandalised in Jessamine’s tone, and if he could smile, he would be right now. “You’ve not told me anything about him!”

“Well-” Euhorn flounders for a moment, “I don’t really _know_ anything. He’s always been here. I don’t think even the Olaskirs knew much about him.”

He remembers the Olaskir dynasty - the day the tower was raided by foreigners ( _pale skin and bright red hair, fire and burning and shouts of freedom against tyranny and exploitation)_ and the subsequent fall of the then-empress.

She’d visited him in her childhood, but her reign had been too-soon clouded with politics and worry - feelings he knew and remembered, if he could not place.

He can sense Jessamine’s pout, and the look that crosses Euhorn’s face suggests that he’s very much devoted to making his daughter happy.

“Maybe there are records - we can go an ask Master Addison to see if he can dig out any of the old histories.”

He reaches up, plucks his daughter from the statue and sets her on the ground. “Go on,” he encourages, “we can look together later. Lessons first, Jessie.”

Jessamine’s pout is more pronounced this time, but she follows her father, but not before pausing to gaze back at the statue and the raven that comes to perch on his shoulder again.

* * *

 

She doesn’t come back the next day, and there’s almost a _disappointment_ in that. His waiting amounts to nothing. He doesn’t sleep - he’s never been able to, try as much as he could. Countless hours spent attempting to _drift_ but never able to close his eyes, simply trying to be like the stone he’s cast in instead of always watching, trapped inside.

There are times when it’s the opposite. When he tries to focus all of his scattered and fragmented mind into _being,_ into maybe moving just a _finger._ When he wishes he has the lungs to scream because _anything- anything_ is better than the maddening silence he’s had to endure.

Visitors are something _different -_ something he can cling to between bouts of monotonous _nothing_ (but still _everything)_ and the formless, noiseless, _useless_ screams of someone who just wants _something._

He should know better by now - he’s eternal, doomed here forever - and everyone else passes by in the same manner that the ravens do, remembering less and less each time.

But when she does come back, she’s alone.

People have talked to him before - he’s been called the perfect listener on more than one occasion; by lovers wanting to test their new poems and platitudes on someone who can’t criticise or mock, by wordsmiths trying to come up with a new great epic that he’ll never be able to read, by military commanders not quite ready to order men to their deaths and beyond.

Children are different. They’ll speak to anyone who cares to listen; they’ll talk to themselves if there’s nobody around. But most of all, they talk to a statue like there’s a real person inside, just waiting to come out and tell them everything will be okay.

And there’s something to _appreciate_ there - maybe he’s not forgotten after all.

She’s sad today. He can tell by the way she walks into his sanctuary, dragging her feet and not-quite looking at anything except the smudges of dirt on her hands.

She sits down in the grass and gazes up at the statue, as if she’s trying to fathom whatever expression she can see there, chewing her lip and twisting her hands in her clothing.

“I’m hiding,” she says, simply. “I don’t want to learn today and they can’t make me. Papa said he was going to help me find you and then he _didn’t_ so I’m not going to do something _he_ asked me to do.”

If he could, he would laugh. There’s a small pang of disappointment - maybe Jessamine and Euhorn would have found something in the records - but it’s eclipsed by a startling _fondness._ Such a childish reaction - and somehow he’s pleased that she decided to hide from the rest of the world _here,_ with him.

Ananke floats down to the grass, joined by another raven that he named _Rasa._ They both regard the little girl, heads turned on one side, as she goes still and holds out a careful hand.

Both the ravens carefully investigate the hand, but lose interest when they find it devoid of food; Jessamine rectifies that by carefully pulling out a cookie from one of her pockets.

“I was going to save this for later,” she says, slowly and carefully, to the birds, “but you can share it with me, if you want.”

She breaks the cookie, scatters crumbs before her, and suddenly Ananke and Rasa aren’t the only ravens here. Rasa’s brothers jostle slightly for a space, but all of them are considerate of the child before them, as if they know that their companionship alone isn’t enough for the man encased in stone, that this small human is important somehow.

The actions of the birds cause Jessamine some joy, in any case; her bright laughter is mixed with the caws of the ravens, but soon the cookie is gone and the birds fly away. Only Ananke remains, and she bobs her head before flying back to perch on the statue’s shoulder again.

Jessamine gazes at the pair of them for a long moment.

“It’s nice that you have friends,” she says eventually. “I wouldn’t want you to be alone.”

He can’t tell if she’s talking to him or the raven.

* * *

 

He keeps expecting her to walk away and never return. Every time he’s surprised when she does - and _suddenly_ there’s some sort of _routine._

She doesn’t visit every day - and even he understands that a child (and a child of an _Emperor_ no less) has other concerns than to visit the statue buried at the bottom of the tower - but she makes it a regular enough occurrence for him to start to consider that _maybe_ she’s not quite like all the other children who’ve visited before.

But she visits whenever she needs someone to talk to who isn’t her mother or father or a governess with greater concerns than a child’s problems.

(And while, yes, he’s not exactly sure how the arrangement of a toy chest is causing so great an issue for her, he can appreciate the fact that his inability to speak is what Jessamine needs.

Because she just needs somebody to _listen.)_

She’s also welcomed by the ravens - she often brings cookies or other dried fruits for Ananke and Rasa, and will sat happily chattering to them when she wants some kind of response, albeit the caw of a bird.

But when she does visit, he finds that he’s more- himself. Less like the stone he’s confined to. He still cannot remember anything that was before, but he’s less inclined to drift, less inclined to succumb to the nothingness and pay more attention to the world.

Sometimes she brings toys to show him - sits a tiny bear upon his outstretched right hand, fitting it between his fingers as if he’s simply holding it out to her instead of reaching for- _for-_

(He doesn’t remember.)

She doesn’t bring friends; every so often her mother joins her, but it’s more of a hurried affair when she is there, a _Jessamine, we need to go, Jessamine, you need to go to your studies,_ and _Jessamine, it’s only a statue._

He doesn’t see Euhorn again, but he can’t say he’s disappointed by that. Ananke and Rasa prefer it when Jessamine is there alone; her mother will scold and tut and frown as the birds hop about in expectation of food. It’s not that Beatrix dislikes them - it’s that Jessamine’s actions aren’t _proper_ for a girl of her standing. She should be learning piano or reading history or _something_ other than feeding the ravens that gather at the base of a forgotten statue.

Jessamine never asks about his origins again; her mind is drawn to more present matters, and he’s too grateful for her visits to be disappointed by that. Whether her father took her to find the records, he’ll never know.

Sometimes, in an effort to please her mother, Jessamine will bring books to read aloud. Several afternoons are spent with her tirelessly sounding out words for him to hear, and so he learns tales of men who ride whales, and of the creatures and people that roam some land named _Pandyssia._

(And surely that can’t be the great thriving nation in the East his people made contact with, once, long ago - who built tall spires and dug mines into the deepest earth, but then were cast adrift with the fall of his empire. Surely they didn’t fall to ruin, too. They were so far - too far for him to travel to, before the end - that he thought that maybe they would be spared from- _from-)_

Jessamine keeps him grounded, but her tales don’t help him remember.

Some part of him wonders if he even _wants_ to remember.

* * *

 

One day when Jessamine visits, he can tell something’s different.

The clothing the nobility wears in this time is easily recognisable - a certain elegance that comes with money and good tailoring. Dark colours edged with gold seem to be the norm. Jessamine’s outfit today is more golden than black; not suited for trekking through the undergrowth (although the path to his statue is well-trodden by now) but clearly for some important person.

She’s carrying two plates, with his limited vision he can tell that there’s a rather large slice of cake balanced on each one. Ananke and Rasa both perch on his shoulders, clearly interested in the food.

She sets one plate down at the foot of the statue, clearly for the birds, before seating herself opposite. He can also see that she’s holding some sort of package under her arm, but she puts it on the ground in favour of eating the cake.

“Mother and Papa said that nobody could come to my birthday,” she says, and the _sadness_ there is easily recognisable. “I don’t have any friends and I didn’t want _them_ to be there. But I have you and the ravens, so-”

She points at the cake, looking up at the birds. “That’s for you.”

Rasa needs no further prompting, and sets to trying to pull apart a slice of cake that’s half the size of him. Jessamine grins, laughing as more birds join them.

She’s royalty - friendship is a concept foreign to many in such a position, he understands that. Friends are _difficult;_ her parents are probably trying to spare her from the heartache of what could potentially be only people attempting to grab power for their own needs. But to hear that a _child_ has nobody to invite to her birthday party? So much that she abandoned what was most likely a family celebration to sit with him?

It saddens him as much as he’s gratified.

As she eats her cake, Jessamine reaches for the package she’d set down, tearing it apart with her hands.

It’s a book of some sort, but he thinks that it’s an unfilled one - one she can put her own stories in. Her eyes go wide, and she looks at the gilt edges of the cover, before reverently placing the journal down into the grass.

“Mother always finds the nicest things,” she says. “She’s not here all the time - her and Papa have to do _adult things_ \- but she always finds me nice things.”

But somehow it’s not enough. As much as Jessamine understands and appreciates her parents, nothing compares to them actually _being there._ He can understand that - the loneliness that comes with being ignored and forgotten.

She has him, and the ravens, but neither of them can speak. They can only listen and watch and _remember-_

But Jessamine doesn’t seem to mind. She sits and eats her cake and tells grand stories of heroes in Serkonos-

( _And oh, how his heart burns with mention of Serkonos, because it’s still there, it’s still alive-)_

-and men who cross the wide ocean to find their lovers and their families again.

And he’s so _entranced_ by her simple words that he barely notices the time passing - not until she’s fallen asleep at the base of the statue, Ananke hopping inquisitively around her leg.

It’s getting dark - she normally leaves well before the sun has set - and he’s acutely aware of his secluded location and the fact that he cannot do _anything_ but watch over her. And while he knows she should be safe here, there’s some niggling _fear_ in the back of his mind that remembers all the invaders past and how she’s a _child_ and-

He hears the governess calling her name before he sees her - his fear settles in increments as she appears, regarding the sleeping child with an expression between relief and annoyance.

Mrs Underwood - she didn’t come from Dunwall, but he’d never learned where she actually hailed from - is a kind woman, loving to a fault, and clearly annoyed with the fact Jessamine’s gotten grass stains all over her probably new clothing. But she looks up at the ravens, up at the statue, and back down to the girl.

“Shoulda known you’d be here, lassie,” she says, gently gathering Jessamine in her arms. “You and your stories about the _Lord Protector -_ I suppose I should be glad you found some friends to share your birthday with. And if any of _you-”_ she directs her words to the ravens “-cause my Jessie some grief, I’ll be back with one of cook’s cleavers!”

The ravens ruffle their feathers, but don’t vocalise a response. Underwood is firm, but she’s kind and always treats Jessamine with kindness and regard for her status. She too, has been dragged to visit the statue, and while she’s not quite as enthusiastic as Jessamine, she’s certainly patient. Sometimes she lets them conduct lessons at the statue’s base, just so Jessamine can then relay her learnings to the ravens.

Not quite an _ordinary_ birthday party, he supposes, watching as Jessamine is carried away, but still a memorable one. Still a _good_ one.

* * *

 

It’s not the first birthday Jessamine shares with him. The next year she returns with some cake for the ravens, and then the year after, and then-

She doesn’t disappear - any other child would have long forgotten him by now, but Jessamine’s inquisitive mind and sheer unwillingness to _let go_ is something akin to a lifeline.

The ravens appreciate her, too. Over the years she’s learned to understand them, like he has. Granted, she can’t quite tell them all apart yet, but she can pick out Ananke and Rasa and a few others too - like Milo, with his white flash on the left wing, or Triss, Ananke and Milo’s mother, with her crooked right leg.

When Triss stops coming to their small gatherings, Jessamine notices, and the look on her face suggests that she understands what has happened. She notices they don’t act as expected -  Ananke and Milo flutter around the statue’s shoulders and don’t come to her outstretched hand - and even Rasa is quiet, which on another day would be considered an achievement.

He doesn’t know if this is the first time she’s experienced grief-

( _-and can it even be called grief? It was a raven, a bird with no ties to her-_ )

-but she’s quieter that day, too. Doesn’t chatter to the ravens like she normally would - although lately her talk has become less and less like the ramblings of a child and more like the talk of someone who is having to grow up quicker than she would like to - and speaks in a quiet, measured tone that will likely suit her well in later life.

The next day she returns with cookies and other fruits in some sort of effort to cheer the birds up. Whether a bird can truly experience _joy_ and _sorrow_ is a question for the philosophers - but he knows the birds better than he knows himself, and can tell that they appreciate the small comforts she brings to them. Bound in stone, he can only watch, and wonder if the ravens even know if he is alive.

(And how he’s tried to let them know, to make some sound, to curl his hand around feathers and beaks and be more than a pedestal for them to perch on. But he cannot. He can only watch, see, listen - be the passive stone that endures but does not _live._ )

Jessamine continues to visit, continues to talk, and continues to read great books and write in her journal (not the one she received from her mother - she filled that one quickly) while the ravens hover and perch around her. Her visits are not quite as frequent as they were when she was younger, and she barely ever has anyone to accompany her anymore, but she still talks to him as if he’s a real person who’s perhaps mute or deaf, instead of stone.

She’s lonely, and he knows that feeling more acutely than anyone, so perhaps the talks are for both their benefit.

* * *

 

One day, she visits when it’s raining.

She’s been to see him so many times that he can work out a pattern. Understandably, she only ever comes on a rainy day when something’s wrong or she’s feeling particularly lonely or lost. Once it was because her father had fallen ill; another when her parents had been on a state visit to Morley (which he’d learned were the people who’d overthrown the Olaskirs).

She doesn’t say anything for a while, sits on the well-worn earth, uncaring of the mud beneath her or the rain falling from the sky.

Milo pecks at her sleeve, allows her to brush the feathers under his beak, and chirps inquisitively at her. Even the ravens know today is not a usual visit, and soon Jessamine has a gathering of several birds. Rasa sets about trying to undo her shoelace, and she lets him, before saying, very suddenly,

“Mother’s dead.”

The ravens startle at her sudden noise - whether they grasp the full meaning of her words is unknown - but then they quiet again. Rasa stops picking at her shoe and Milo butts her with his beak until Ananke joins them and chases him off her leg.

The ravens know grief - know what the death of a parent is - but their mourning is different. They share it, they caw it to the open skies and the walls around them. Jessamine has nobody but them, and neither he nor the ravens can crouch down, enfold her in their arms and tell her everything is going to be okay.

“Mrs Underwood said that- she said the baby came too early and mother wasn’t strong enough to keep it alive. She said the physician did everything he could to save mother, too, but-”

She looks down at the floor, picks at the grass, her tears masked by the rain.

He’s no stranger to death. He remembers how once, many years before the Kaldwin dynasty, a thief had tried to climb the outside of the tower and fallen into the statue’s sanctuary. The man didn’t die, and had spent an agonising two days, lying on broken bones and unable to move, waiting for his end. He’d spoken all his wishes, all his woes and sorrows, all his _dreams_ to the statue next to him, knowing his end was coming and unable to do anything to prevent it. And in the end, he’d passed from the world perhaps more at peace and content than anyone else he’d ever witnessed.

Jessamine’s grief is different. It’s borne by someone who has been taught to conceal emotion and bear everything with a degree of separation. By someone who’s had no time to prepare for it and no idea of how to deal with something so acute and raw.

_This?_ This is a feeling he somehow knows - cannot place - and he wishes for nothing more than to be able to tell her he knows how she feels.

( _Did those he left behind grieve for him? Did he grieve for them? He knows what she feels but he doesn’t know why or how he feels it; this strange empathy that is almost as foreign as his own name.)_

It had taken the groundskeepers a year to find the thief’s body - by then nothing but a corroded skeleton with some tattered remains of clothing and equipment. They didn’t know his name, had simply recorded the find and then tossed the bones into wheelbarrow to cart away. The thief went unremembered, save for the statue and the ravens.

While Beatrix Kaldwin and her child’s funerals will likely be a far more grand affair, he can’t help but think that at their base level, they are the same. Everything is forgotten, in the end.

Jessamine is gently running her hands through Rasa’s feathers when she hears the footsteps approaching the grotto.

It’s been many years since Euhorn has been to the statue. He looks older, certainly, but there’s something in his eyes that suggest that today has aged him by a thousand years.

He doesn’t speak, sits himself down in the grass next to Jessamine.

“How did you know I was here?” she asks him.

“I always know when you come here, Jessie,” he replies.

And there’s something telling, there - Euhorn is a distant father, yes, but not through choice. His duties as Emperor and husband often cause him to overlook the needs of his daughter, but that doesn’t mean he’s not aware of what she does. He’s not unaware that Jessamine is growing up and likely getting further from his grasp, but he’s trapped, too, by duty and now this grief.

Jessamine nods, almost to herself, as Milo sets it upon himself to sit upon Euhorn’s knee. The ravens don’t dislike him, they’re just wary of this person who’s still somewhat of a stranger, but even they can sense that Jessamine needs somebody who can speak to her and give her assurances, today.

Euhorn’s surprise is quiet, measured, like the rest of him, but he gently brushes a finger across the top of Milo’s head. Some of the tension drains from his shoulders, and he’s wrapping an arm around his daughter’s shoulder to bring her closer to his side.

“It’s not fair,” Jessamine mumbles, quietly, turning her head into his side.

“It’s not,” he agrees.

* * *

 

Jessamine doesn’t come back after that. He knew the day would come - _it always does -_ but Jessamine had lingered longer than everyone else before her. So long that he’d started to hope. But the hope and contentment he’d felt with her visits starts to dissipate, and he finds himself _drifting_ again, lost in his stone form and uncaring of the changing seasons.

She was thirteen when Beatrix died - certainly old enough to step into some of the duties once covered by her mother. He understands that Jessamine now has many more worries and issues than before - she has no time for the overgrown statue in the garden.

_The ravens miss her,_ he tells himself, trying to ignore the dull ache of the fact that _he does, too._

He cannot find it within himself to resent, so drift he must, if only to alleviate his sorrow.

The ravens are the first to alert him of someone’s approach. Quell - one of Ananke and Rasa’s children - flutters past his eyeline to perch upon a bush that overlooks the pathway into the grotto. Soon the birds are gathered on his arm and shoulders, peering out in expectation.

It’s been months since he’s last seen her, but she still looks the same. Same face, same hair, same inquisitive mind.

She’s carrying a large book - some heavy tome that he assumes came from the library - and as she sits herself down on the ground she opens it to a page near the front.

Ananke is the first to move, coming to gently rest on the edges of the book. Jessamine smiles, pats the bird on the back, before turning her attention back to the page.

“ _The city that once existed on the site of Dunwall is little-known and even less recorded,”_ she read aloud. _“It’s name is lost to time, as is the knowledge of most of the rulers and its people.”_

_(Could it be-?)_

He cannot allow himself hope. He’s already been given enough by the fact she returned. Anything _more_ is too much.

_“What is known is that the last kingdom fell to outside powers. Legends and stories tell of witchcraft - a woman borne of vines and dead wood coming to tear the Tower down. And while this author dismisses such audacious notions such as witchcraft, it is clear that the last kingdom did not go without a fight.”_

Quell, now seated by Jessamine’s knee, squawks, leaning over to nibble at her finger as she turns the page.

_“The last ruler was a Serkonan named Beatrici Attano,”_ Jessamine reads, and the _name_ strikes like an anvil in his heart-

( _Beatrici, how could I forget her, how-)_

“ _-it is known that she had a son, but his name and age are lost to time-”_

_(Milo, poor, sweet Milo, he was just a boy when they came for him - when they came for_ her-)

_“-and her brother was charged with being the Lord Protector, to guard them from harm and outside forces.”_

_(I was- I- Beatrici? Milo? Who-)_

Jessamine pauses, looks up at the statue, as if she can sense the turmoil raging beneath the black stone, as if she’s trying to fathom the expression on his face, or learn something from the positioning of his hands.

_“The Lord Protector is a role certainly confined to the ages past. Nowadays, the Emperor or Empress simply makes use of the Guard and trusts in their work. A single man cannot keep an entire invading force at bay, after all. This Lord Protector - a man named Corvo - most certainly did not. The role of Protector died with him.”_

Jessamine stops for a moment, slowly turning over the page, even as Ananke attempts to hop over it and inspect the words.

“Corvo Attano,” she says, slowly, turning the name over on her tongue, before smiling widely. “Isn’t _Corvo_ the Serkonan word for _raven?”_ she asks, gently shoving Ananke aside. “It fits, I suppose.”

He turns the word - _his name -_ over in his mind. _Corvo._ It’s been so long since he’s heard it, he’s unsure that it even _belongs_ to him. But Jessamine says it with such conviction he’s certain that nothing else would belong anyway.

_(My name is Corvo.)_

And suddenly he remembers _more -_ Beatrici’s laughter on a gentle summer afternoon, Milo’s green eyes staring wordlessly as he’s taught how to fence, how the _witch_ came and took _everything-_

It’s too much, it’s not enough, and suddenly he wants to drift again, he wants to ground himself in _this_ and he _wants-_

_“A curious footnote remains,”_ Jessamine breaks his tumultuous thoughts, reading again. _“The witch who came to claim the Tower - if she can even be called a witch - ceases to exist in records here, too. A story passed between peasants living on the outskirts of the city (and who have done so for generations) say that the Lord Protector managed to inflict a fatal blow upon the witch before he was struck down himself.”_

Jessamine looks back up at the statue. “Maybe you did your job after all. Even when all was lost you still wanted to protect.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment, before turning her attention to the page again.

_“The same peasants say that the witch did not kill Corvo, but cursed him for all eternity to watch but never be able to interfere. The story is likely one to serve as a some wish-fulfilment of a conquered people, but rumors exist that there is a statue of him somewhere in the grounds of Dunwall Tower. If this author is ever allowed into the Tower to find it, then rest assured, dear readers, I shall endeavour to do so._

_“Even then, it is only likely to be a statue, and one commissioned after the downfall of the Tower - a reminder of the office rather than of the man who once held it.”_

She stands up, peers at the stonework, before pressing her hand to the side of his face. He wonders what it would be like if she could feel him _alive_ underneath the stone, if he could give her a sign that the stories were _true_ and that he’s more than just a memorial to himself.

“Corvo Attano,” she repeats, as if she herself is deciding if the name fits. “Lord Protector to an empire with no name.” She settles back on her heels, folds her arms.

Quell comes to rest on his outstretched hand, peering down at Jessamine as she looks up at the statue.

“At least they remembered _yours,”_ she says finally, and some unremembered part of his heart _soars_ to hear such words.

* * *

 

And so, it does not end. He does not fade away and drift into nothing again.

Somehow, miraculously, he’s gained _more._

( _My name is Corvo._ )

Jessamine continues to visit - somewhat less regularly than her child visits - and continues to bring fruit and dried food for the ravens. She continues to read histories of Dunwall and the Isles (and that is how he learns the city he was born in is now named _Karnaca)_ and will often practise speeches she now needs to give to workers and noblemen alike.

He can’t help but think of the poets and the writers and the philosophers all doing the same before, but none of them spoke their words quite so sweetly as she does.

Between the visits, he watches the ravens. Knows why he always cycled back to certain names. _Milo, Triss, Rasa._ They were people from his past, things he knew. And while he can only place _some_ of them, some part of him is glad that he didn’t _quite_ forget, and that Jessamine is there to help him remember.

She brings him back to himself. He’s not _The Lord Protector_ anymore - not a nameless statue with an unknown history and purpose.

He is Corvo. And while he is still confined to black stone, he watches.

He watches days pass to nights, weeks and months pass to years, seasons pass. Jessamine grows from a thirteen-year-old with uncertain words to a lofty eighteen-year-old who can speak with a sharp mind and even sharper tongue.

She still practices her speeches with Corvo, still reads her histories, and still tends to the ravens.

Ananke and Rasa have had several broods by now - all their children float around Jessamine when she visits. The wariness of years past is long gone; the ravens remember her kindness, and share it with each other.

And then, on a cold day during what is known as the _Month of Darkness,_ Jessamine visits.

He knows something is wrong by the way she carries herself. She’s small, hunched, sad. She looks like the sad, lost girl who used to visit, who brought cake to the birds because there was nobody to share her birthday with.

She sits on the grass, uncaring of the stains that will likely streak her outfit, and _sobs_.

And Corvo knows.

Euhorn Jacob Kaldwin has died.

It’s not just her father she’s crying for. She’s now an _Empress._ Giving speeches to nobles and playing a part is a wholly different matter to actually running an _empire._

And she has no time to process her grief - let her fears be known - so she decided to come to him and to the ravens, to the one place where she found solace in all her young years. Because now, she will have no such thing.

Rasa perches by her knee, nudges her arm, and she breaks off to run her hands across the slight crest of feathers atop his head. Soon more ravens are gathered around her, sharing her sorrow as best they can.

“Father used to say that ravens were an omen of death,” she says, quietly. “That you would linger by old and forgotten things, including the dead.”

Rasa _caws_ at that, somehow managing to sound offended.

“I didn’t say _I_ thought it,” she mumbles, but there’s a soft sort of humour there, too. “I used to wonder if you were just messengers. Passing on information from the living to the dead. I- I don’t know-”

She breaks off suddenly, letting her hand drop from Rasa’s feathers. She instead looks up at Corvo.

“If you are, could you tell Father that I love him?”

* * *

 

She returns several months later, and already he can see how her new office has changed her.

Eighteen years old is no age to be an Empress, and perhaps Corvo’s discovered something even lonelier than his sanctuary. She had no friends as a child - she cannot _afford_ to have them as an Empress.

But the smile she wears when she looks upon the stone again is the same as it ever was, and his heart is glad for it.

She’s accompanied by some men that Corvo vaguely recognises as groundsmen - not many ever come by him, buried at the base of the Tower as he is, and they are often chased away by the ravens - and all of them are gazing at the statue with expressions somewhere between exasperation and bewilderment.

“My Lady,” one begins, “are you sure you want-”

“Yes, Master Thorpe,” Jessamine cuts in, smoothly, and Corvo can see how well she commands attention and respect. “My intentions have not changed,” she states, drily.

“Of course, Empress,” he says, waving at his men to move forward.

The ravens flutter about, anxious as to what is going on, but Jessamine soothes them with a smile and some soft words.

“He will not be going far,” she says to Ananke, who is perched on her forearm.

( _He will what-?_ )

That is all he manages, because at that moment, his statue _moves_ for the first time in probably a thousand years.

And he can see _clouds_ and the _sky_ and the top of the Tower and-

The groundsmen carry him out of his small sanctuary, through the overgrown path that he’s only ever been able to _look at_ instead of pass through, and place him underneath a stone gazebo that overlooks the river - the _Wrenhaven,_ Jessamine called it once.

The ravens follow, gather on his shoulders and arm and head to peer at his new locale, cawing and chattering between them. Jessamine smiles fondly at their actions, before graciously thanking the groundsmen for their help.

“Not at all, Empress,” says Thorpe. “Although, beggin’ your pardon, but he’s got a frightful expression, don’t you think?”

“He does,” Jessamine concedes, “but I’m not afraid.”

And so, they are left alone under the gazebo; Corvo, Jessamine, and the ravens.

“Being an Empress means I can’t visit, much,” Jessamine says. “This was the best compromise I could think of. I still need somebody to practise my speeches on and Corvo always was a good listener.”

She laughs, briefly, gazing up as his stone facade, before turning her attention back to the ravens gathered around him.

“I hope you don’t mind too much. It’s not too far from where he was before.”

And just like that, Corvo has a new home.

He can see across to the other districts, he can watch the boats and whaling ships as they sail up and down the river, through the city-

( _-a city that runs on the hearts of whales, a city that is no longer his to remember or Beatrici’s to rule-_ )

-and out to the wide ocean beyond.

Serkonos is out there, somewhere, but he finds that he’s not so interested with returning to his home. He has none but the Tower, but the stone and the ravens.

And Jessamine.

She never forgot him. And he knows that he will never forget her, too.

( _How can you forget someone who has made you whole again? Has made you who you are? Someone that you-_ )

( _That I- -?_ )

Sometimes he wishes he could sleep. Wishes he could just shut out the world and let his mind slow, allow it to process- _everything._ He’s never been someone who was very good at examining their own mind, especially since he’s forgotten most about himself.

But _this?_ This is something new. The deep _care_ he carries for Jessamine is something unexpected, something _raw._

( _He would call it love, but he cannot allow himself the notion. He will live far longer than she, and eventually lose himself again until only the memory of her remains._ )

So he watches the Wrenhaven instead, watches the boats come and go, and watches the people who populate Jessamine’s life.

She has many advisors, and knows perfectly how to field them all. As far as Corvo can tell, there are around five people that she regularly has to deal with and that he can name.

Thorpe, the head groundsman, is the one who deals with making sure his statue is well maintained. Corvo can tell that the man doesn’t really like him, but he seems to notice that there’s hardly any trace of wear on what is basically a thousand-year-old block of stone. He finds the ravens exasperating, and Corvo in turn finds the ravens actions against Thorpe more amusing than anything else.

There’s Geoff Curnow _,_ the Captain of the Guard, who dotes on a niece named Callista and cares for those under his supervision with a fervour Corvo admires. A kind man, with a sharp mind and a no-nonsense attitude that serves his position well; Jessamine is lucky to have him.

The High Overseer - a religious position he’s not sure he understands fully - is a man named Campbell; who seems to live far too extravagantly for a man of faith, but Corvo’s knowledge of the Abbey of the Everyman is scarce and barely-gleaned.

The position of _Spymaster_ (something he’s saddened to know exists) belongs to Hiram Burrows, and what little Corvo has learned of _him_ sits uncomfortably in his stomach. The man has a drive and ambition that Corvo would envy if it were in anyone else - in Burrows he can only imagine what sort of ideas he has. But, he works in Jessamine’s best interests, and most certainly defers to her authority.

One day, Jessamine brings someone to examine the statue.

Corvo’s heard of Anton Sokolov via discussions had by Jessamine, who finds him to be a great thinker; and mutters from serving maids, who find the man somewhat repugnant and a drunkard. He supposes that the real man is probably somewhere between the two. He’s many things, after all: artist, physician, philosopher.

Upon seeing him for the first time, he learns that Sokolov is most definitely a foreigner - he recalls the servants calling him _Tyvian,_ someone from the frozen land to the north.

Despite his fallacies, Corvo can tell that Sokolov admires Jessamine, admires the way she carries herself and deftly weaves between nobles and commoners and treats them all with kindness.

He’s also very intrigued by the statue made from black stone that Jessamine directs him to.

_“The Lord Protector,”_ he reads aloud, examining the inscription. “Is that all there is?”

“I looked in the records, once,” Jessamine tells him. “I think his name was Corvo. The last Lord Protector of the Attano line.”

“The _Attanos?”_ Sokolov says, somewhat reverently. “The last great rulers of the ancient city? My lady - this statue would have to be _hundreds_ of years old and it has barely a scratch!”

“I know,” Jessamine replies. “Just- tell me what you can see. An artist’s perspective.”

“Well-” Sokolov falters for a moment, turning a critical eye onto him. Somehow he’s _uncomfortable;_ Sokolov is looking at him, _assessing him,_ and for a moment he wonders what will happen if he’s found unworthy or unsuitable somehow. Will he be taken back to his original place with the ravens?

( _He would miss the Wrenhaven dearly- would miss Jessamine even more so-_ )

“Remarkable,” Sokolov muses, stepping closer to examine the stone. “Whoever carved him was truly a master craftsman. It’s as if they simply encased a man in stone.”

And oh, the irony in that.

“His positioning is most- _unusual,”_ Sokolov settles on, and Corvo has to wonder what he _does_ look like - he can only glimpse an outstretched right arm, can surmise that he was reaching for _something_ when the witch changed him-

( _Beatrici? Milo?_ )

“He has a sword on his hip, yet he’s reaching forward with an open hand, as if the weapon is useless - and then his left is-”

Corvo doesn’t know what his left hand is doing. It’s somewhere down by his side, out of his eyeline. He doesn’t even remember what his own face looks like, not really, let alone his hair and clothing and apparent _weaponry._

Sokolov’s gasp of air has him certainly _wondering_ what he looks like for perhaps the first time in a thousand years.

“My lady,” Sokolov says, and the _reverence_ in his tone is unexpected. “Do you know what this is?”

“The ring?” Jessamine asks, leaning forward.

( _The Imperial signet ring- how did I forget- only two made-_ )

“No, not the ring - although the _design_ is remarkable -” Sokolov says “-but _this.”_

He’s gesturing to something Corvo can’t see.

“The scratch in the stone?” says Jessamine. “It’s always been there, it’s like- like a printing plate has been pressed into it.”

“Indeed,” says Sokolov. “But - my lady Jessamine - _that_ is the Mark of the Outsider.”

* * *

 

“Hello, Corvo.”

Some part of him never truly forgot. How could he forget the boy with eyes as black as the abyss he stands in?

The Outsider is a figure of myth, neither good nor evil. He watches everything, and Corvo knows that he is in some part the reason behind his incarceration in stone.

That was why he forgot about the Mark. He didn’t _want_ to remember about the power he bore in the leviathan’s name, and how it all amounted to nothing.

“Do you still hold the old resentment?” the boy asks, black eyes fixed upon the river. It’s night in Dunwall, and the world is silent, still. It’s not the Void, but it’s the closest thing to it, and Corvo knows the Outsider is making an exception to visit him in this place. “You tried so hard to forget me, Corvo, that you forgot _yourself_ in the process. Was it truly worth it?”

He cannot speak an answer, but the Outsider hears it all the same.

“Perhaps it was,” the Outsider muses, “just to hear Jessamine Kaldwin say your name for the first time.”

The Outsider doesn’t laugh, but Corvo can see him smirking at the torrent of emotion he clearly detects within the stone.

“Anton Sokolov has made a great study of me and my runes,” the Outsider says suddenly. “His discovery that you carry my Mark has driven him into a great frenzy - you are perhaps the oldest - if not the only - depiction of someone bearing it. He believes there are specific words that can _compel_ me to appear before him, but- well, we both know there are no such words, don’t we?”

When he was first turned into stone, he tried to call to the Outsider to help. He struggled and _screamed_ and pleaded with his entire mind and _soul_ to be freed, but the Outsider never came. Never gave him anything more than the Mark.

( _Never gave the witch anything but the Mark, either, but she was stronger, better-_ )

“Some would say that Fate has dealt you a sad hand, would they not?”

The lights from the city glitter in the Outsider’s eyes as he turns to face the statue, ring-adorned fingers hovering over the stonework.

“Others would say that it was I - that my Mark was the cause of all your woes. But we know better, don’t we, Corvo? I don’t play favourites, I simply cast the die and see how it falls. If anyone dealt your hand, it was Delilah.”

He’d never truly forgotten _her_ name, either; the cunning gleam in her eye and her command over vines and stone.

“I’m older than the rocks this place was built on, and even I didn’t see that coming,” the Outsider continues. “There was nobody _quite_ like Delilah.”

And he hopes, for the sake of everything, that there will never be anyone like her again.

* * *

 

Sokolov continues to visit, after. Not as often as Jessamine, and certainly not for the same reasons; but to examine every inch of the mysterious statue in the Tower.

“For the love of- can _someone_ get these damned _ravens_ away from me?” he splutters, exasperated, one day, after Quell tugs on his sleeve for perhaps the tenth time that morning.

“Leave them be, Anton,” Jessamine laughs, voice warm. “They’re simply looking after their friend.”

She holds out an arm, and Quell flutters to it, watched by Sokolov’s ever-narrowing eyes.

“Yes, well- is that friend _you_ or _him?”_ he asks, nodding to the statue.

Sokolov’s obsession with the Outsider was as the god had said - ever since discovering Corvo’s Mark the philosopher has been looking for anything else that will hint at his origin. He just hopes Sokolov doesn’t decide to try and tear him apart - not only would he incur Jessamine’s wrath but he’d probably break his own arms before the stone would yield.

As it stands, Sokolov has settled for simply drawing him at the moment - detailed drawings that contain exact measurements and diagrams.

It’s somewhat _baffling,_ the level to which Sokolov goes, but Corvo finds that his mind is sharp and his company not unpleasant. It’s not as if he could tell the man to stop, in any case.

Quell chirps as Jessamine strokes his feathers, before she releases him to hop back onto the statue. Ananke and Rasa join him, and Corvo’s glad that they still visit him, even though he’s now outside the bounds of their sanctuary. He supposes no distance is too far for a bird, in the end.

Jessamine is gazing out over the city, but her attention is drawn away when an advisor scurries up to the gazebo. He hands her a sealed missive, which she scans.

Something in her face changes. He knows that whatever she’s reading is not good news.

“Anton,” she says, seriously, causing the man to pause in his work. “I need you to pack your things.”

* * *

 

He learns later that plague has come to Dunwall.

He doesn’t see the infected - the _weepers,_ they’re called - but he notices that Thorpe’s assistant, Tara, doesn’t come in one day. He sees the anguish in Thorpe, and knows that Tara will never come back.

Jessamine takes meetings, sends envoys, and watches over her city with a worried eye and sad heart.

_The rat plague,_ they call it. Borne from the land of Pandyssia, and tearing apart the heart of an empire. He sees it in the face of Jessamine, in the dwindling number of boats entering and leaving the city, and in the way the ravens caws seem to echo louder and louder each day.

He wants to help. Wants to lend his words to Jessamine-

( _-and what would he even say? I’m here, I’m listening, I’m-_ )

-but he’s trapped. And he’s having to relive the same feelings as before - watching as strife and degeneration tears his city apart once more.

Her advisors all have different ideas, different theories on where it originated and how to destroy it, but nothing seems to work. Sokolov doesn’t come to investigate the statue anymore - he’s instead working tirelessly to find a cure. Corvo somehow misses him - his cutting words and somehow _scathing_ intelligence would be a good foil against Burrows and Campbell, who are quick to suggest fast and _easy_ measures that have a cost neither seem to care for.

She has Burrows set up a rehabilitation centre. He assures her that everything will be in order, but something in his tone _unsettles_ Corvo and makes the birds shuffle on their perches.

And Jessamine notices, for one day, she says, “I don’t trust Hiram.”

It’s quietly spoken, half-whispered into Ananke’s feathers, but carries far more weight than any missive that’s been borne to the palace lately.

( _Serkonos will not help, Tyvia will not help, Morley-_ )

She sighs, looks out across the Wrenhaven, before back to Ananke perched on her arm. “He means well for the city, but the things he _proposes_ are just- they can be so _cruel._ And I have to wonder if he’s done _terrible_ things in my name.”

She doesn’t voice her suspicions to anyone, but there’s a certain wariness to the way she addresses Burrows, now.

And so the city tears itself apart, and Jessamine in turn is torn apart.

But in spite of it all, Jessamine still greets him and the ravens with a soft smile. She still practises her speeches on them all, and still manages to laugh at the antics of the birds.

And somehow, these small, sweet things bleed out.

One night he’s drawn from his regular reverie by hushed voices and light footsteps. A pair of guards huddle from the rain inside his gazebo, and while their patrols sometimes pass by Corvo can tell that they’re here for another purpose.

“Jerome, what if-”

“I _don’t care,”_ Jerome cuts him off, draws his companion closer and-

_Oh._

Corvo’s wished for others to know he’s alive and aware before, but not quite so acutely as he does now.

“I don’t care,” Jerome repeats, softer, once the kiss breaks apart. He reaches up and cups his hands either side of his companion’s face. “Richard, let’s- let’s just _leave_ this Outsider-cursed city behind. We can go to my aunt’s in Cullero, or somewhere where nobody knows our name! Escape the plague and all this _shit_ and-”

Richard laughs, presses his hand to Jerome’s. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is! We could just leave right now and nobody’d know until morning! By then we could be on a ship and heading south,” Jerome says, earnestly.

This time Richard initiates the kiss - it’s softer, sweeter, from someone clearly and hopelessly in love. It makes Corvo’s heart _ache._

“Okay,” he says. “You know the side gate - near the water lock? Meet me there in thirty minutes. We’ll have to be quick or they’ll notice- I love you,” he finishes, before straightening his uniform and ducking out into the rain.

“Shit,” Jerome whispers, hoarsely, watching Richard leave. “I didn’t think the bastard would agree.” He glances over at the statue. “Lord Protector - protect him, will you? Protect _us_.”

And then he’s gone, too, heading in the opposite direction.

He hopes that they make it. If he had any power to help them, he offers it now, a silent prayer to the Outsider that something good and _bright_ be borne away from the plague-ridden city.

(The next morning, Curnow remarks to a subordinate that two guards - _Capstan and Willows -_ have disappeared. When the subordinate leaves, Curnow looks to the statue, and Corvo knows that he’s not the only one keeping their secret.)

* * *

 

“She talks to this damned thing all the time - _ugly_ shit if you ask me. Are you sure she didn’t go mad when the old bastard wheezed his last?”

He’s been called frightening before. Fearsome. Angry, even. But _ugly_ is not often a word tossed around and while he’s a thousand years old there’s something in it that _stings_ a little. As for calling Jessamine _mad,_ well- if he could he would tell them all about a child with no friends her age and under overwhelming pressure to _do_ and _act good._ It’s a miracle she _didn’t_ go mad, and honestly he can excuse her the one probable fallacy of talking to a statue.

It’s late evening, and Corvo is overseeing some sort of meeting occurring between Burrows, Campbell, and two other men. Twins, interestingly, with long faces and sour looks.

“Hiram,” Campbell says, exasperated, “leave the damned thing alone.You didn’t call us here to complain about a lump of rock.”

The ravens have all retreated to their nests; Corvo wishes they’d stayed just a little longer, to give him some comfort, here. He doesn’t trust any of these men, doesn’t trust what they have planned for the city, and what directions they want to steer Jessamine in.

Burrows turns away from the statue, and carefully looks around them.

“The Empress,” he says delicately, “has asked me to open an investigation into whether the rats were imported by a foreign power.”

Corvo knew that had been a worry of hers - the Morley Insurrection wasn’t _that_ long ago, especially not to him - but Burrows had dismissed her concerns. Apparently she’d pressed him further.

“She’s adamant,” Burrows continues. “I fear that we will not be- _safe-_ for much longer.”

( _What is he saying? Same from what? Did he-_ )

“You and your damned plans,” one of the twins says. “I suspect you have a new one to solve this mess?”

“Or give us even _more_ problems,” the other says. “What was it you said- _I have a plan that will solve all our problems._ Only it made them _worse_ and now we _all_ live in fear of the plague that _you_ brought to our doorstep. And your _rehabilitation centre_ can only stay secret for so long.”

( _That he_ what?)

“The problem, Custis,” Burrows says, “is that Jessamine is too concerned with the _people_ and not the outcome.”

“The problem is Jessamine, you mean,” Campbell says.

“Precisely,” Burrows replies.

Silence follows his words, and for the first time since he was incarcerated in stone, Corvo feels cold.

( _Regicide. They’re planning regicide._ )

* * *

 

This, perhaps, is worse than a thousand years of loneliness.

Because now he has to watch over the person he loves knowing full well that people are trying to kill her. Her own _inner circle._

(And oh, how he foolishly thought about _love_ and his own feelings when this- _this_ is a crueler punishment. He should not have allowed himself to love.)

Jessamine is so blissfully ignorant that, if he were a flesh and blood man, he would _weep._ She doesn’t trust Burrows, but her heart is far too pure to even _consider_ the fact that he could be plotting utmost treason against her.

Barely twenty years old and already she’s weathered far more than her father before her. And _Burrows_ think he can right his wrongs by simply _removing_ her.

The ravens seem to sense his sorrow; they flock around him and jealously guard him from any they see as a threat.

Jessamine is still allowed close by, but somehow he wishes that she wasn’t. That she would _now_ forget him and move on, so he doesn’t have to endure and watch as she falls to insidious schemes within her own regime.

All those years spent hoping for the opposite. Even he can detect the bitter irony there.

Burrows said he would _handle everything._ Corvo has no information as to when the- the _deed_ is supposed to be done, or even _how._ She could be poisoned, he could bribe a servant, he could-

( _He could kill her without me knowing at all._ )

“Birds are flighty today, aren’t they?” Curnow remarks to Jessamine one evening.

Rasa is perched on his arm, imperiously looking down at Curnow and Jessamine. He caws, knowing he’s being addressed, causing Curnow to raise a brow.

“Smart, though,” he says.

“They probably know more secrets than the Spymaster,” Jessamine agrees.

They discuss the plague, of course, but also other problems in the city. Whale oil is having to be rationed. Some place called _The Flooded District_ is causing issue. Construction on Kaldwin’s Bridge is almost complete, but plague has halted the work for now.

Jessamine leaves to attend another meeting - so many, lately, and all with the same outcome of _no change yet -_ and Corvo and Rasa are left to watch over Curnow alone.

“I wonder what secrets you _do_ know,” he says, to Rasa, briefly reaching up in an attempt to brush the raven’s feathers. Rasa hops nimbly away, and Curnow lets out a brief laugh.

“Of course,” he says, ruefully, withdrawing his hand, before turning his attention to the statue.

“ _Corvo’s_ an old Serkonan name,” he states. “My grandfather’s from there, you know - and the stories I could tell of _him_ would ruin my reputation. But I wonder what stories _you_ could tell.”

Right now, he has a story that could tear down an empire, but he has no mouth to speak it with.

Curnow looks at him for a moment longer.

“The Empress is rubbing off on me,” he says eventually, running a hand through his hair. “Now _I’m_ talking to the statue.”

He leaves, and Corvo is once more alone.

And that’s all he’ll ever be, in the end.

* * *

 

In the middle of the night, three people visit.

Or, more accurately, three people _appear_ in his gazebo.

It’s dark out - there’s no moon tonight and the shadow of the structure hides them from anyone who might be nearby. But still their actions are furtive, quick - they’re not supposed to be here and they know it.

One is wearing a red coat, the other two a dark blue or black. The two in blue are masked - some kind of industrial wear that looks as though it has some kind of air filter in it. He wonders why - has the plague gotten so terrible that people require such masks?

One thing he’s sure of is that he doesn’t trust these people. The maskless man in red has a scar over his right eye, and there’s a _whisper_ of something about his left hand.

The Outsider once gave him the ability to peer through walls. He’s never been able to use the gift since his imprisonment, but somehow he _sees_ the true nature of this man.

He is Marked. The first Corvo has encountered since the witch Delilah.

“This is where he wants it done?” asks one of the masked - male, young. “Secluded enough, but-”

“The statue’s fucking creepy,” the other masked interjects. Female.

The man in red doesn’t respond, simply reaches into a pocket and lights a cigarette.

This is the man who is going to kill Jessamine. Burrows has hired an _assassin._

(He wonders, bitterly, how much this man is being paid.)

“I like it,” he says eventually, taking a long draw on the cigarette, turning to face Corvo proper. “They say she speaks to it every day.”

His voice sounds like it’s been dragged over gravel, and he speaks with an accent that Corvo knows isn’t local but cannot place.

“Well, she won’t be much longer,” the woman says, smug. “Anyway - we have line of sight from the water lock, so I suggest we come from that direction. Rulfio can pilot a boat for us.”

“Thomas,” the man in red says, “you’re with me. Billie, you’ll be watching from the water lock in case something goes wrong.”

“Expecting to be beat by a twenty-year old Empress?” Billie asks.

“Always good to be prepared,” Thomas replies, something like a reminder in his words.

“Speaking of preparation - are we even sure Burrows has the coin he’s promising us? I don’t wanna pull off the job and not get a cut for the assassination of the century.”

“He does,” the man in red says, eyes still on the statue.

“Daud saw him fucking one of the Boyle women,” Thomas says.

Corvo’s heard of the name _Boyle -_ a rich family of nobles living somewhere in the city; a minor annoyance to Jessamine with their extravagant parties. But his attention is drawn away from that fact, because-

Burrows has hired _Daud_ \- the so-called _Knife of Dunwall_. Corvo’s heard of him a few times, mostly Curnow’s worried mutters to subordinates, but also sometimes from nobles who gossip about the latest crimes the man has perpetrated.

All of them have the same ending:

Daud never fails, is never caught, and is never forgotten.

* * *

 

He swore an oath to protect. To lay down his life in place of others, and fight with _everything_ he had.

And now, he has nothing. Nothing but his eyes with which to witness the person he loves fall for the second time.

A light rain is falling over the city, making the entire world seem blurred and out of focus. It’s reminiscent of all those years Corvo spent in his grotto - far away from the world and never truly perceiving _any_ of it.

It’s the opposite, now. Everything is too sharp, too clear, and _too much._ He sees and hears _everything_ and cannot _do anything_ about it.

Jessamine is going to die, and she has no idea. She’s simply staring out into the rain, unaware that _demons_ are coming for her, and-

And he cannot even do the job he swore he would always do. He cannot _protect._

Ananke and Rasa are huddled on his shoulder, ruffling their feathers in an attempt to dry them. Jessamine notices, and looks over to the birds, a soft, fond smile stretching her features.

( _She looks so young. She_ is _so young._ )

“Always here to guard him, aren’t you?” she says, offering a hand to Ananke. “If only _I_ had such a faithful companion.”

( _But you do- you have_ me- _you’ve always had me-_ )

He cannot bear it, to know that soon she will be torn from him forever.

( _Let it be me- I’ve lived long enough- too long, far too long-_ )

Jessamine’s hand wavers, and moves to the side of the statue’s face. If Corvo were living and breathing, he would feel her palm against his cheek.

But he feels nothing.

She draws her hand away and looks down at it for a long moment. It’s wet, somehow, he notices.

“Looks like I have another thing to fix,” she says sadly. “My gazebo has sprung a leak.”

After she leaves, Ananke and Rasa flutter to the floor, drying out their wings a little more. They peer up at the statue, watching the water drip from it, and caw between themselves.

It’s not until Rasa departs that Corvo notices that it’s not raining anymore.

* * *

 

It happens on a bright clear day in the Month of Earth.

Jessamine is in the gazebo, alone, reading the latest missives from the rest of the Isles. Curnow - perhaps her only remaining loyal follower - has been called away to deal with an incident inside the Tower somewhere.

It’s a rare day that Sokolov has actually come to visit from his home, which Corvo knows to be on Kaldwin’s Bridge somewhere. He’s here to paint a portrait of Campbell, something he only really does to placate the nobles he knows detest him. He’s a man who is very skilled in navigating the day-to-day of court, and knows where to place himself and his skills in order to both keep his high standing and make the most of it.

He used to wield a power of a similar nature.

The ravens are perched on him and around the gazebo - Milo is inspecting an abandoned plate of food on the table nearby - and they chatter among themselves.

When they fall quiet, Jessamine notices, and looks up.

“What is it?” she asks them-

And Corvo knows.

He’s not facing the water lock, but he knows that’s what Jessamine is looking to when her gaze slides past him and turns uncertain. He can picture the figures stood there, planning their move.

It’s like the world has fallen still, and he _cannot_ look away.

“Who- where _is_ everyone?”

And then the peace shatters.

Two men appear in front of him - one in front, one behind Jessamine. Thomas and Daud.

The birds startle, cawing loudly, taking to the air and away from the scene. Jessamine herself gasps, instinctively moves away - closer to Corvo, ducking behind his outstretched right arm.

( _No, please, not here, not now, not-_ )

“Hold her,” Daud mutters to his companion, who nods, disappearing and reappearing behind Jessamine, grabbing onto her arms.

And then Jessamine gets an inkling of what is about to happen, because she _shouts_ in a voice that is so unlike her soft nature, high and full of terror.

_“_ No! What are you _doing? Please!”_

“Sorry, Empress,” Daud says, as Thomas drags her away from the shelter of Corvo’s arms, “but it’s not me who wants you dead.”

A flash of black in front of his face- and Thomas jerks suddenly, as a raven’s beak finds an exposed patch of skin near his wrist. Swearing, the assassin lets go of Jessamine for a moment, who takes the opportunity to twist away and kick out at her assailants.

Thomas’ hand catches the bird, backhands it with his full strength, and it falls to the ground. Corvo spots a white flash on its wing.

_Milo._

Another bird - Quell -  flutters around Thomas’ face, but his beak cannot penetrate the mask, so he retreats to a safe distance, avoiding the assassin’s hands and sword.

Ananke and Rasa have both gone for Daud - Rasa claws at his unscarred eye, Ananke’s beak tears into his ear - but it’s not enough.

The world _shudders,_ Daud’s left hand flashes white briefly as his Mark activates, and then all the birds have fallen to the ground. Their caws are gone, and the silence left behind is deafening. A few feathers float down from the roof of the gazebo.

Jessamine stumbles as Thomas catches her again, and falls at Corvo’s feet. She’s crying, sobbing, knowing that her end is coming and there is nobody here to save her.

And there’s nothing Corvo can do.

“The birds can’t save you,” Daud says, drawing his sword. “And neither can your _Lord Protector._ ”

_No._

He will not let it happen again.

_I will not fail her._

The sound of breaking stone is thunderous - drowning out whatever Daud was going to say and stopping Jessamine’s cries in their tracks. And he can _feel -_ the cold bite of air on skin so unused to _anything,_ the taste of the _sea_ in his lungs and the feeling of _everything-_

He’s moving before he’s aware of doing it. Instinct powers him - he draws the sword he’s carried at his side for a thousand years, unfolds the blade in a movement he never truly forgot, raises his left hand and _pulls._

_Bend Time._

And Daud - a man who could argue that he’d seen more witchcraft and Outsider-driven magic than any other man in the world - is powerless to stop him. Can only stare as this man emerges from the stonework and heads straight for him.

_Blink._

He _roars,_ surging forward in a crackle of energy and the sound of shattering stone. It falls from him like rain, clattering to the ground in rivulets and shattering, but he pays no attention to it.

His left hand catches Daud by the throat, and without preamble, he sinks his blade into the man’s stomach. It’s old, but it was made by the finest craftsman of the age, and has never failed him once. It once struck the heart of Delilah, and now it will do the same to Daud.

The startled _wheeze_ that emerges from Daud is perhaps the first sound he truly registers. His grey eyes go wide, and they slide to meet Corvo’s own. He grits his teeth, twists the sword, forcing more air from Daud’s lungs, before dropping him to the ground.

He spins just in time to dodge a blow from Thomas, and it’s almost too _easy_ to parry it and carve a ribbon of red from the assassin’s chest.

He drops, too, gasping for air. Corvo can tell he won’t last long, not by the wet sound of his breaths. He reaches out, in the direction of the water lock-

_Billie. The reinforcements._

But nothing comes. And as he looks, he notices that the figure perched on the rooftop slowly stands up, and turns away.

Burrows wasn’t the only one seeking to remove their superior.

“ _Billie…?”_ Thomas gasps, watching her form disappear, before he falls limp and wheezes out his last.

Daud has heaved himself backward, propped up against one of the gazebo’s supports. He’s breathing heavily, and his eyes are closed. A large stain of red is forming around him, and Corvo knows he’s not long for this world, either.

And _Jessamine-_

She’s huddled against a ruined plinth of black stone, tear-filled eyes gazing up at him. She’s afraid - he can see the way she shakes - and so he drops to his knees and slowly reaches out to her.

He’s _dreamed_ of being able to do this for so long, but he never _thought- never-_

“ _Jessamine,”_ he says, in a voice that cracks and breaks on the first syllable, barely able to whisper for the pain inside his lungs.

And how everything seems to _hurt -_ so long without breathing or _feeling_ that when it all comes rushing back he’s not entirely sure how to _do_ any of it anymore. His limbs are shaking underneath him, and his eyes are watering, and his breath _wheezes_ too, but he’s alive and he can _feel_ for the first time in a thousand years. Because of _her._

Her eyes meet his, and she’s so deathly afraid it breaks his heart, but-

_“Corvo?”_ she whispers, before the sound of hurried feet draws both their attention.

A small crowd rushes to the gazebo. Curnow, back from his other errand with some guards. Sokolov, paint smeared on his jacket

Burrows.

He has no words with which to accuse - listening for a thousand years as language changed and evolved didn’t necessarily best equip him to _speak_ it - but he rises on shaking legs, reaching for his sword once more to level it at Burrows.

He’s met with Curnow and his guards drawing their swords in turn, but he doesn’t care - let him be struck down, _Jessamine is safe._ He instead narrows his gaze at Burrows, and he hisses out a single word with his broken, cracked voice:

_“Traditore.”_

A word they used to use - one he called Delilah, before she turned him to stone.

“Empress?” Curnow asks, somewhat faintly, taking in the scene before him. Jessamine, tear-streaked and shaking, cowering on the floor. A dead assassin in a mask, a dying one without a mask. And an unknown man, standing at the centre of it all, surrounded by shards of stone.

“What is the _meaning_ of this-” Burrows begins, stepping forward, but Corvo’s sword is suddenly at his throat. The guards draw pistols and aim at him, but do not fire.

“He called you a _traditore,”_ Curnow says, slowly. “That’s the old Serkonan word for _traitor._ ”

“Empress, what is going on?” Sokolov asks, slowly, stepping up behind Corvo. His eyes are searching, and they rest on his left hand for a moment, before turning to the broken plinth of stone. And the _gleam_ that Corvo sees there gives the impression that Sokolov is slowly piecing it together.

“I- he-” Jessamine begins, slowly rising and taking a deep breath to compose herself. “I was _attacked-”_

“By him?” Burrows prompts, nodding to Corvo, who glowers at him in return with all the fury he can muster. And judging by the flicker of _fear_ in the Spymaster’s eyes, it’s a lot.

“No,” Jessamine replies. “By _them.”_ She gestures to Daud and Thomas. “And then- _he-”_ she says, turning a shaking hand to Corvo.

“Who are you?” Curnow asks. “And why did you call Master Burrows a _traitor?”_

How does he explain? How _can_ he explain?

“Because that’s what he is,” a voice wheezes from behind them.

They turn - Corvo still keeps his sword levelled at Burrows - but all eyes are on Daud, who’s leaning against the gazebo and breathing heavily. His grey eyes are fixed upon Corvo, and his expression is unreadable. Blood from Rasa’s attack is trickling down his face, joining the larger pool beneath him.

“You saw it all, didn’t you?” he says to Corvo. “The planning, the preparation - all for nothing because _you_ were there. I saw the design on the back of your hand - the Mark of the Outsider himself - and I _wondered,_ but-”

He coughs, wetly, drawing a hand over his mouth. It comes away a dark red, but he pays no attention.

“The _Lord Protector,”_ he wheezes. “Here to stop the assassin from killing his charge. Not even the stone could stop you. But _you,_ Burrows - I won’t die keeping _your_ secrets.”

He levels his gaze at Jessamine.

“I don’t know what you did to piss off the Spymaster, but he and his collaborators were going to pay me an extortionate amount of coin to kill you. I-” he winces, hand pressing to his side, “- I suspect it has something to do with the people he’s been dumping in the Flooded District.”

“Hiram?” Jessamine whispers, turning to look at him.

“My lady - he’s an _assassin!_ How can you _possibly_ believe him?” Burrows squawks, still held at the point of Corvo’s sword.

“A dying man does not often lie,” Sokolov says, “and trust me - he _is_ dying.”

“The Knife of Dunwall,” Curnow breathes, as if he’s noticing Daud for the first time.

“There’s a dead drop on the edge of the Flooded District,” Daud says. “You’ll find all the evidence you need there. But, if you _really_ don’t believe me, ask _him.”_ He nods to Corvo. “ _He_ saw it all. Him and that black-eyed bastard who haunts our dreams.”

He coughs again, almost a _laugh_ this time.

“I knew that this would come back to me. Our choices _always_ matter to someone, somewhere. We make them, and take what comes. The rest is void.”

His eyes fall shut, and Corvo knows he’s dead by the way he stills.

“Who are _you?”_ Burrows asks. “And why do you _insist_ on holding me at the point of a sword?”

He’s exasperated, but Corvo couldn’t care less. All he can think about is _how close_ he came to watching Jessamine die, and how by some miracle he was able to prevent it.

“Not figured it out, yet?” Sokolov asks. “He’s the statue, of course.”

“He’s the _what-”_ Curnow begins, before cutting himself off in a shocked gasp. Because now he’s noticed the absent statue, the shattered plinth, and the fine layer of dust in Corvo’s hair.

“ _How-”_ Burrows begins, “-what sort of _witchcraft-”_

“Corvo?” Jessamine interrupts, and to hear his _name_ again-

He turns, and somehow meeting her eyes is harder than he expects it to be. He wonders what she sees - whether she still sees him as someone she could talk to with all her worries, or whether now he’s something _different_ and wrong.

He doesn’t speak - doesn’t trust himself to say the right words, or even use the right _language._ So he waits, left hand clenching into a fist, wary of the guards still eyeing him suspiciously and Burrow’s outright glare.

(Sokolov looks _intrigued,_ and Corvo honestly doesn’t expect him to lose that look any time soon.)

“Is what he said true?” Jessamine asks, nodding to where Daud’s body lay. “Did you- Are you-”

“Lady Jessamine - you’ve had a frightful day,” Burrows cuts in. “You cannot _possibly_ believe that I would even _dream_ of committing such a crime! And as for the fact that this- this _renegade_ is apparently your damned statue come to life, well-”

“He _does_ look like the Lord Protector,” Curnow says.

“You’re _entertaining_ this?” Burrows retorts.

“ _You_ sent me to the other side of the Tower for what turned out to be a minor incident,” Curnow says, the accusation in his voice clear. “I was supposed to be _here_ with the Empress.”

“Do you understand me?” Jessamine asks him, gently, and the tender concern in his voice is almost _heartbreaking -_ she’s just had an attempt on her life and she’s worried about _him-_

He nods, uses his free hand to gesture to his throat. _It hurts,_ he tries to say; he’d rather only use words when necessary.

“He’s probably not spoken in an age - his throat could be damaged,” Sokolov posits. “It probably hurts him to say anything at all.”

Any annoyance Corvo bore towards Sokolov is gone - he’s _defending_ him, and by the scathing look he’s levelled at Burrows, he’s certainly ready to believe that the Spymaster orchestrated the assassination attempt.

“What could he even have to say?” Burrows says.

“Called you a traitor, didn’t he?” Curnow replies. “But we’d need something a bit more, ah- _concrete.”_

He smiles, catching the irony in his words.

“What did my mother give me for my ninth birthday?” Jessamine asks, suddenly.

Her first birthday in the grotto. Nobody else living knows the answer to that question.

He takes a quick look at Burrows, at Curnow, Sokolov, before back to Jessamine, who’s watching him with wide eyes.

“A journal,” he croaks, and the strangeness of hearing his own voice startles him - how _foreign_ and _different_ he must sound to them.

(He looks different, too - his skin is a darker shade than anyone else here. He’d forgotten.)

Jessamine’s hands go to her mouth, and he knows she _remembers_ too. She _believes._

“You brought cake- for the ravens,” he manages to add, before-

_Ananke. Rasa. The birds._

They’d defended Jessamine for a few precious seconds. He spares a glance down at the somehow _small_ forms of the raven’s broken bodies, and blinks at the sudden onset of tears that threatens to spill over.

His only constants through the years, _gone._

“It’s him,” Jessamine breathes. “It’s _you. How-”_

“Perhaps a question for later,” Curnow interrupts, gently. “Right now we should-”

He looks up at Corvo, some kind of wonder in his expression, but he hides it well.

“Did the Knife speak true?” he asks. “Was it Burrows who planned it?”

Corvo nods.

“Burrows,” he grinds out, uncaring of the pain. “Campbell. _Boyle._ And- _twins,”_ he finishes, unsure of their last name. “Custis- and-”

He doesn’t know.

“Morgan,” Sokolov supplies. “The Pendletons. I painted them recently - them and the other one. Dark hair, long faces, _unsettling_ mannerisms?” he asks Corvo, who nods in response.

Burrows has turned ash-white with every word Corvo has uttered.

“Jessamine, I-” he stammers weakly, but he’s cut off by Curnow stepping forward and dealing him a _savage_ blow to the face with the hilt of his sword. He _staggers,_ clutching how now bleeding face.

“You _traitor!”_ Curnow hisses - and now the guards have their swords turned on _Burrows,_ and Corvo steps back, folding his own blade away finally.

(Sokolov’s eyes follow it with keen interest, but he doesn’t speak.)

“ _Blackwater,”_ Curnow orders, sharply, to the man on his immediate right. “Get this _filth_ out of my sight, and then round up some men. We’re going _hunting.”_

The men lead Burrows away, who’s still clutching at his face in shock.

“Empress - will you be all right?” Curnow asks, watching them leave. The _concern_ in his voice is touching, and Corvo’s never been more glad of his dedication to Jessamine.

“I- yes,” Jessamine replies. “You go and- do what needs to be done. Corvo and Anton will protect me.”

-and how _easily_ she seems to accept him, it scares him, because _what happens now-_

Curnow nods in reply, before turning and offering Corvo a short salute.

“Good work - Lord Protector,” he says, almost _awed_ by the fact that Corvo’s _there_ and breathing, and then moves to follow his men.

The _relief_ that overcomes Corvo is almost overwhelming - every emotion he’d held back for the sake of saving Jessamine floods through, now. Every ache and pain, every _sensation_ that he hasn’t felt in a thousand years rushes to meet him. The breeze is almost like a knife on his skin, the stone is hard against his feet (which, he notes, are booted), and he can feel the rough scratch of his clothing. His left hand tingles, and he can taste blood.

His protesting legs finally give up - he falls, but he’s _caught_ by Jessamine on his right side, and-

They end up kneeling on the floor, in some kind of embrace, and the warmth and softness of her skin is quite possibly the greatest sensation he’s encountered. Before he’s even aware of doing it, he’s raising a hand, pressing it to her cheek, gently brushing away the tears that have formed there with his thumb. His hands are shaking, but he ignores the sensation.

“Jessamine,” he says again - what else _can_ he say but the name of the person who saved him?

Her smile is still as sweet as ever, and her soft _laugh_ is like music.

“Corvo,” she says, and he smiles weakly in return, before everything becomes _too much_ and he falters, darkness overtaking his mind and his tired soul.

He dimly hears her saying his name again, this time _concerned-_ Sokolov says something in reply, and she’s shaking him awake. He blinks up at her, and the sheer feeling of being _able_ to do that is a relief in itself.

“I know you’re tired,” she says, slowly, her blue eyes carefully searching his face, “but we should leave here.”

And she’s right - the corpses of Daud and Thomas are still where they lay, and he cannot bear to look at what’s become of the ravens-

A small, broken caw penetrates the haze of his mind. He looks up, turning his gaze to where the birds lay. A pile of feathers moves, more than just buffeted by the wind, and a bird hauls itself to its feet.

“Milo,” he whispers, seeing the white flash on the bird’s wing - a wing that’s crooked and bent - before he reaches forward to gently pick him up. The bird blinks up at him with bright eyes, settling into his palm with another caw.

“They knew,” Jessamine says softly. He doesn’t know if she means about _him_ or the assassination.

He cradles the bird to his chest as he’s helped up by Jessamine and Sokolov. Between them, he half-walks, is half-carried away from the gazebo, away from the corpses of assassins and birds, and towards the Tower.

“I expect you’ll have quite the story,” Sokolov says to him.

He supposes he does - but not for tonight.

* * *

 

“I thought I would find you here.”

He’s sat in the grass, back in his former sanctuary - or prison, he supposes - looking at the place where he used to stand. The grass and vines have grown over where he once was, but he still remembers the spot.

He comes back here whenever he’s feeling particularly adrift or overwhelmed. Centuries of nothingness means that sometimes just the _presence_ of others becomes too much to bear, and he becomes restless, almost _irritated._ So he returns to familiar ground, to the peace and solitude of his former home.

Jessamine sets herself down on his left side, and she too looks at the empty space. She doesn’t press him to talk.

Talking is- it’s still a somewhat of a new sensation. Jessamine’s patient, understanding, knows he keeps his own counsel for a multitude of reasons. He still struggles to navigate the court, and knows that saying the wrong thing would not only damage his already fragile reputation, but Jessamine’s as well. Sometimes he simply _forgets_ he has the ability to speak, and he surprises himself when he finally remembers he can do so.

Jessamine’s come to learn that when he does speak, he usually does with a reason - idle chatter and other such niceties are still an unknown to him.

“Was it Anton again?” she asks him. “I can tell him to stop, you know.”

He shakes his head. Sokolov’s questions can sometimes be trying, especially when Corvo won’t give him a complete answer (either because he doesn’t remember, or just doesn’t want to), but the physician seems to understand how hard it is for Corvo to talk about certain things.

There are some things he wants Jessamine to know, first.

“He helps,” Corvo admits to her. “Talking helps me to remember.”

He looks down, gestures to his left hand, which is wrapped in a length of cloth to hide it from the prying eyes of the court.

(To worship the Outsider is considered a heresy, now - he remembers how Beatrici carried a rune with his Mark, Milo crafting his first bone charm, and wonders how all that belief came to be washed away with the tide.)

“I remember getting this,” he says to her. “It- it was unheard of, even for back then. I stood in the Void and listened as the Outsider told me, ‘ _in a thousand years from now another city will stand on this spot’._ I thought he meant to educate me on the nature of time and change, but-”

He clenches the hand into a fist, briefly.

“When I told Beatrici,” he says, quietly - speaking of her still hurts, somehow, and he thinks that maybe it will never stop, “and showed her the Mark, she- she _laughed._ Said that being chosen by the Outsider surely meant good things for us. But- but I never forgot what he said about that city.”

“You think he knew,” Jessamine replies. “He saw _this_ in your future.”

He nods, not trusting the words he would speak.

“Have you asked him?” she asks - and he laughs at such a notion.

“He’s not the sort of person you _ask_ anything. You listen, and attempt to take heed. But- even if I did ask, he wouldn’t give me an answer that would satisfy. In the end, you have to find your own answers and make do with those.”

“And what answers have you found?” she asks him gently.

On his right shoulder, Milo the raven shuffles his feathers. His wing never fully healed after the fight with the assassins - he can never fly again - so he now sits with Corvo, guarding the Empress alongside him.

(The court mutters and whispers, but they tolerate it because Corvo forces them to.)

Corvo doesn’t reply to Jessamine for a moment; reaches up with his right hand to soothe the bird.

He thinks back, to that moment in the Void. To Beatrici and Milo. To Delilah, and how she tore it all down. To the thousand years between. To the ravens. And then to Jessamine.

He gently takes her hand with his left.

“I think he told me because he knew I would end up here,” he says. “Because I was meant to be.”

She doesn’t reply, merely squeezes his hand, and shifts to lean against him. And he thinks-

He would take another thousand years of change, if Jessamine was always the one waiting for him at the end.

 

* * *

 

“He is amazed; but stands rejoicing in his doubt;  
while fearful there is some mistake, again  
and yet again, gives trial to his hopes  
by touching with his hand. It must be flesh!”

**Ovid’s** **_Metamorphoses._  **

****

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually super fun to write! I hope y'all like it.
> 
>  
> 
> find me at wardens-oath.tumblr.com


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